


Things That Will Never Happen

by cuddles



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Falling Angels, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Star-crossed, The Bentley - Freeform, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-06-28 11:17:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddles/pseuds/cuddles
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley can't touch.I added a second chapter, because ... yeah.





	1. A Toast

Crowley arrived at the restaurant fashionably late. It wasn't that he wanted to keep Aziraphale waiting, or to miss out on a few minutes of his company, but he had been arriving fashionably late for centuries now, and he intended to keep it up. He parked illegally, more out of habit than necessity, and strolled in. Aziraphale had taken a table in the back.  
  
Crowley stood there for a minute, watching. The angel hadn't noticed him yet. Candlelight played over Aziraphale's face. He had already ordered a bottle of wine, which Crowley knew would be exquisitely well chosen, and was sipping it while he waited. Crowley drank in the angel's relaxed posture. The intelligent gleam in his eyes. The way his pudgy fingers curled around the bowl of his wine glass. Everything about him, really.  
  
When he sat down, Aziraphale looked up and beamed. The pleasure in his face made Crowley's heart leap. "So good to see you, my dear boy." Their feet brushed under the table and they both pulled them back.  
  
"Hi," mumbled Crowley, suddenly shy. He ducked his head to inspect the menu. Aziraphale poured him a glass and he took a gulp. "How's business? Been spreading much virtue and glad tidings lately?"  
  
"Oh, here and there." Aziraphale prattled on for a bit about his work at the local hospital, and described the lost soul who had wandered into his bookshop the prior week. "I could see how unhappy she was, and I was able to offer her some spiritual consolation." He leaned forward. "I even sold her a book."  
  
"The ultimate sacrifice."  
  
"And how about you?" Aziraphale asked. "Infernal wiles going, er, well?"  
  
"Oh, I caused a ten-car pileup on the M25 today. You might have heard about it if you watched the news." (Aziraphale never did.) "Traffic was backed up for six hours. People were getting out of their cars and threatening each other. And I made all the horns just slightly louder than they needed to be," he added with pride.  
  
"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, a crease appearing between his eyes. "Was anyone -- ?"  
  
"No casualties," Crowley muttered, running his finger down the menu and landing on something with bolognese sauce. "All miraculously unharmed."  
  
He could sense Aziraphale's smile without having to look up. "You know, Crowley --"  
  
"Don't say it."  
  
"You really are --"  
  
"Spare me."  
  
"I could kiss you sometimes," Aziraphale said, still smiling.  
  
Crowley swallowed. He glanced up. "I could kiss you back," he said.  
  
Their eyes locked.  
  
They had kissed once. Just once. It had been more of a dry brush of lips, but Crowley counted it as a kiss. He had been the one to pull away. Panicked. Babbling.  _We can't. They'd find us out. You'd Fall. Don't ask me to be the reason for your Fall._  And Aziraphale had nodded slowly. And that had been that.  
  
Since then the Arrangement had acquired a new unspoken rule. They did not touch, unless their hands happened to brush by accident, which happened more and more often these days. No more handshakes. No more clapping each other on the back. No more leaning drunkenly on each other's shoulders. Definitely no kisses.  
  
"May I take your orders, gentlemen?" The server appeared beside them, pen poised, and the moment passed.  
  
When they had ordered, Crowley sipped his wine and gazed into the flame of the candle on the table. The restaurant was playing a Mario Lanza song. Lately it seemed like all the music he heard was about love. He had put a random tape in the Blaupunkt the other day, fully expecting to hear  _Best of Queen_ , and had been taken aback when it turned out to be Tchaikovsky's _Romeo and Juliet_ overture.  
  
Aziraphale was watching him. "You know, dear ..." The angel paused. "I wish things were different too."  
  
"Well, they're not."  
  
"Because I really would like to kiss you." The earnestness in Aziraphale's voice would have been comical under other circumstances.  
  
Crowley could feel a flush creeping up his neck. "Yeah?"  
  
Aziraphale ran a finger over the rim of his glass. "Do you know how I'd do it?" he asked quietly.  
  
Crowley looked up. It might be the candlelight or it might be some angelic inner light, but he could see fire dancing in Aziraphale's eyes. "How?" he croaked.  
  
Aziraphale took a thoughtful sip of wine. "I think I would cup my hands around your face first. Stroke my thumbs over your chin, your jawline, your cheekbones ... did I ever tell you you have exquisite cheekbones, my dear?"  
  
"You hadn't mentioned." Crowley was trying not to smile. He was fairly vain about his cheekbones.  
  
"Remiss of me. In any case, no sense rushing things. Let me see, what next?"  
  
"You'd get up close," Crowley suggested. His heart thrummed in his chest.  
  
"Hmm," said Aziraphale. "Yes, I'd like to breathe you in. You have a brimstone smell when you've visited Hell lately. When you haven't, you smell of that aftershave of yours. Though I'm not convinced you actually need to shave."  
  
Crowley didn't, but he liked feeling clean. "You smell of sandalwood when you've been to Heaven. And the rest of the time you smell like your bookshop. Sort of ... sweet. And dusty."  
  
They were silent for a moment, sizing each other up.  
  
"Next, I'd take those off." Aziraphale gestured at Crowley's sunglasses. "I want to see your eyes."  
  
Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and offered them up to the empty air. They vanished with a tiny popping sound.  
  
Aziraphale smiled. "I would start at the corner of your mouth -- right there." He pointed. "Slowly. Very small kisses. Very soft. Very dry."  
  
"I'd open my mouth," Crowley countered. His mouth had fallen open already, and he could almost feel the press of Aziraphale's lips along it, feather-light, teasing.  
  
"But I wouldn't take the bait, my dear. I would brush my lips over your philtrum. Kiss the tip of your nose. Little things."  
  
"Then I would take matters into my own hands." Crowley took a fortifying gulp of wine. "I'd grab you and mash my mouth against yours. Lick your teeth. You have nice teeth."  
  
"And you have nice fangs."  
  
Crowley flashed a toothy grin. "You know what I'd really like?"  
  
"What's that, dear?"  
  
"I'd like to sit in your lap."  
  
Aziraphale inhaled sharply. Crowley could see he hadn't thought of that before.  
  
The server approached the table. "One fettuccine alfredo. One tagliatelle with bolognese." He laid the dishes before them, giving Crowley an odd look before he went. (People tended to give him odd looks when he wasn't wearing his sunglasses.) Crowley leaned back in his chair, a little disappointed at the interruption, his heart still racing. They settled in to eat.  
  
"I'll bet you have a sssoft lap," whispered Crowley across the table. He twirled a bit of pasta around his fork. He wasn't hungry anymore. Or rather, he was hungry for something he couldn't eat, and it was maddening.  
  
"I suppose I do," Aziraphale whispered back. "And you'd be at just the right height for me to run my lips over your neck."  
  
Crowley felt his head tip back involuntarily.  
  
"I'd hold you very close, my dear."  
  
They ate in silence for a few minutes.  
  
"I could take off your shirt," Crowley offered.  
  
"Oh?" Aziraphale considered this.  
  
"And you could stretch out your wings. It's been a while. Last time I saw them, they could use some grooming." Crowley chewed a bite of tagliatelle. "I could clean them up a bit. Straighten out the pinions. Run my fingers through the downy bits at your shoulder blades."  
  
"Nobody's ever done that for me." The angel blinked his pale eyes. "What if I were to wrap my wings about your shoulders? Like a blanket."  
  
Crowley pictured it and felt very warm. "Yes."  
  
"And hold you," said Aziraphale softly.  
  
"And hold me," said Crowley. He could almost feel Aziraphale's arms and wings pulling him in close, hugging him tight.  
  
They had never hugged.  
  
They ordered a single slice of marbled cake for dessert. The tines of their forks clinked together as they ate. Crowley thought he could taste the faintest trace of Aziraphale's saliva. He lifted the wine bottle and swirled it around. "About a glassful left. Care to split it?"  
  
Aziraphale nodded, and the wine vanished from the bottle, reappearing in their two glasses. "Thank you, my dear."  
  
Crowley raised his glass. "Here's to things that will never happen." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice and failed.  
  
Aziraphale touched his glass to Crowley's. Their knuckles brushed. They drank.  
  
Crowley felt weary and disgusted with himself, but he wasn't finished talking. "I want to take you to bed."  
  
"In the, er, carnal sense?" Aziraphale inquired.  
  
"No. I mean I want to bring you back to my flat. I have a king-sized bed. Egyptian cotton sheets. I want to pull you under the covers and hold you as tight as demonically possible. I want to fall asleep in your arms." Crowley found himself gazing into Aziraphale's eyes for the hundredth time that evening. His chest ached. There. He had said everything.  
  
Aziraphale reached across the table and --  
  
Crowley snatched his hand away.  
  
"Sorry!" the angel mumbled, pulling away too. "Sorry, dear. Didn't know what I was doing. Just acting on an unconscious impulse, you might say."  
  
"Right." Crowley stared at the tablecloth.  
  
"I suppose I was going to hold your hand." Aziraphale looked miserable.  
  
"I would give anything to hold your hand right now," Crowley told him fiercely. He clutched the edge of the table.  
  
" _Almost_  anything, my dear."  
  
"Almost," Crowley agreed.  
  
Aziraphale insisted on paying the bill over Crowley's protests, and they stepped out into the cool night air. The angel paused in front of the Bentley and leaned down to run a hand over the car's bonnet. His touch was slow and deliberate.  
  
"What are you doing?" Crowley asked.  
  
"Nothing, dear." Aziraphale got in. Crowley watched as he stroked the sides of the leather seat. Then he reached over to lightly grip the gearshift, letting his fingers trail over the knob. Then he laid a hand on the glove compartment, his thumb toying with the latch. Crowley shivered, understanding. Every caress Aziraphale gave the car was intended for Crowley.  
  
Crowley found it hard to concentrate on his driving.  
  
When they reached the bookshop, Crowley parked (illegally) so he could walk Aziraphale to the door. He half-hoped the angel would invite him in for drinks, but he sensed that would be dangerous.  
  
"Well," said Aziraphale, "good night."  
  
"Yeah." Crowley wondered if he looked like a lovesick puppy. Probably. "Ciao."  
  
They looked at each other one last time, and then Aziraphale shut the door softly but firmly behind him.  
  
Crowley went home. Or rather, he went back to the flat, which was about as homey as a combination high-end furniture store and plant nursery. He curled up in bed and wrapped his several-thousand-thread-count sheets around himself as tightly as possible.  
  
When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of a snow-white feather, perhaps the tip of a long wing, hovering less than a centimeter from his face. It came so close to brushing his skin that he could feel the tiny air currents it stirred with every slight movement. In his dream he wanted to reach out and seize it but he couldn't, his arms were trapped at his sides, he could hardly breathe.


	2. Antichrist ex Machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam intervenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave it at that, so here's a little more.

Aziraphale knew Crowley loved him.

That might have been a happy thought, but it wasn't. The way Aziraphale had discovered that Crowley loved him was when, after their one fleeting almost-kiss (Aziraphale didn't count it as a kiss), the demon had pulled away, ashen-faced, and said no. He loved Aziraphale enough to turn him down. Firmly. Forever.

They hadn't talked about it after that, but it hung between them. Sometimes in the middle of a conversation they would fall silent, gazing into each other's eyes. Sometimes their hands brushed by accident. (Aziraphale wondered if Crowley felt the same spark of joy at the contact.) Once Crowley asked about the book Aziraphale was reading and he blushed as he admitted it was the letters of Abélard and Héloïse.

Lately it seemed as though all the books he read were about love.

And then there was last night. How had they got so carried away? It was only words, of course. Words seemed like safe territory, unlikely to attract the attention of Heaven. But what words!

Now it was early morning, and Aziraphale couldn't concentrate on his books or his work, nor did he much care for sleep. He was diverting himself by going through the mail that had arrived the previous day. There was a newsletter from the National Booksellers' Association; letters from two of the angel's human contacts, detailing all the good works they were supposedly doing with his heavenly encouragement; and an envelope addressed in a childish pencil scrawl to "Ezra Fell."

This last one gave Aziraphale pause. What bothered him was the quotation marks around "Ezra Fell." It was as though the scrawler knew the name was a pseudonym and didn't think much of it, as pseudonyms went.

He opened it. The letter began, "Dear Mr Angel, How are you? Last time I saw you, I told you and your friend you didn't have to worry. But now you're going and worrying. Well, listen...."

Aziraphale kept reading. As he read, his puzzlement turned to incredulity, and then incredulity turned to hope, and an astonished smile spread across his face.

***

"Crowley!" Aziraphale called through the front door of the flat, and knocked a third time. "Crowley, are you there? I need you!"

"'M not coming out," Crowley's voice emerged from inside. "'S too early."

Aziraphale sighed. There was no way to explain through the door that he had had a letter from the Antichrist and everything was wonderful now. "Crowley, read this," he ordered and thrust the carefully refolded letter through the mail slot.

Crowley's footsteps came padding towards the door. There was a rustling of paper. Aziraphale held his breath.

Finally, the bolt slid back and the door opened.

Crowley didn't have his sunglasses on. He wore a dressing gown and a shaken expression. His vertically slitted pupils were so dilated they almost looked round. The letter was clutched tightly in his hand as though he were afraid it might vanish.

They stared at each other.

Aziraphale took a step towards him. Crowley twitched, then opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

"Crowley, my dear," Aziraphale murmured. "It's all right. It's really all right."

Slowly, so as not to spook him, Aziraphale raised one hand. Even more slowly, he brushed his knuckles across Crowley's cheek. Crowley closed his eyes. Neither of them breathed.

Aziraphale cupped his hand around Crowley's face. Crowley leaned into the caress. Then with a sharp inhalation, he jerked his head around to press a desperate dry kiss to the heel of Aziraphale's palm.

"Oh, Crowley," whispered Aziraphale. "It's all right," he said again, and repeated it like a mantra as he pulled the demon close.

Their lips met with what felt like a spark of electricity. That first kiss dissolved into a frenzy of small sweet clumsy kisses. Aziraphale cradled Crowley's dear, precious face as the demon's hands crept up his shoulders to his neck.

They stumbled into the flat together, locked in a kiss that had unexpectedly deepened, a tidal pull drawing them together. Time slowed down. Aziraphale felt Crowley's fingers tremble as they ran through the little curls of hair at his nape. He felt his whole life, all six thousand years of it, contract into this moment.

The sound of tearing fabric broke the silence as their wings unfurled and spread across the room. There are some things you can only do in your true form, and this was one of them.

By the time they reached the bedroom, they were hugging each other tight, like best friends who hadn't seen each other in a year.

***

Hours had passed when they finally came back to themselves. Aziraphale was lying in Crowley's bed and Crowley was curled up on top of him, head resting on the angel's chest to listen to his gradually slowing heartbeat. Their wings were tucked away again but stray feathers lay strewn across the sheets and floor. Aziraphale was stroking Crowley's hair, which was silkier than he'd expected. Now and then the angel found himself smiling at the ceiling. They lay in silence for a while before Aziraphale spoke.

"My dear," he whispered, raising his head to be heard, "how would you like to take a holiday? Greece, perhaps. Or the south of France."

"Mmm," said Crowley. "Yeah. I'd like that."

They lapsed into another contented silence.

"We haven't quite done everything we said we would do with each other," Aziraphale observed. "Not yet."

Crowley's hand came up to rest on Aziraphale's neck, thumb on his pulse point. "It's going to take a long time to do everything I want to do with you."

"Is it?"

"A very long time."

Aziraphale was smiling again. "An eternity?"

"An eternity," Crowley answered.

A few minutes later the demon was fast asleep on Aziraphale's chest.

***

A few days later, a bouquet of bellflowers and roses showed up on the Young family's doorstep. It came with a card saying nothing more than "Adam -- Thank you."

"Do you know who could have sent you these?" Mrs Young asked as she filled a vase with water. She was a little worried that Adam was getting old enough to have a secret admirer. Girls never sent boys flowers in _her_ day, she thought, but then of course times were changing. Did boys send other boys flowers? She didn't know.

"No idea," said Adam. He wrinkled his nose. "What am I s'posed to do with a bunch of dumb old flowers?"

He hopped down from his seat at the kitchen table.

"Come on, Dog," he said, and Dog leapt to his side, barking and wagging his tail. Together they ran out the front door -- Mrs Young calling after them to be home in time for dinner -- and headed down to the chalk quarry. It was a nice day.


End file.
